


A King's Dirge

by Zayxoo



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Also Mikoto has a place in the story!, Angst, Depression, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Graphic Depictions of War, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Sex, Weird mesh of an AU, Will add more tags as I go along, Xander has severe ptsd pass it on, ngl they both have survivor's guilt, this whole family is messed up, tl;dr Xander needs lots of hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayxoo/pseuds/Zayxoo
Summary: He's long accepted his fate of being a martyr. So long as he can protect those around him, his life doesn't matter. His happiness doesn't matter. All he needs is to see his family be happy. That's enough for him. That should be enough for him. And yet, when he looks at him, sees him smile so freely with eyes that hide away his sadness, he doesn't know if his resolve can hold.A king's duty is to sacrifice himself for his people...right...?





	1. Remember Everything

There was once a child of five autumns. He was small and frail, a delicate little thing. Sneezing on him often left him at death’s door. The poor thing tried to be brave, but around those he did not know and even around the ones he did know he was scared, often shying his way out of conversations. He couldn’t hold a sword to save his life. Reading was a struggle for everyone involved and often left the young boy in tears of frustration. Math was a challenge. Painting, a chore. History was only slightly interesting. Strategy always ended in failure. Athletics of any sort left him injured. Despite all of his shortcomings, despite that he always proved to be poor to average, he struggled to excel in something. Anything. But it did not matter to his parents. They loved him for his sweet innocence and innate sense of right and wrong.

His mother, a tall woman of long curled golden hair and eyes of the earth, was always so soft spoken. The boy loved his mother so much. She always knelt to her little boy with outstretched arms and a smile that outshone the moon. Everyone who knew her called her a light. She did not like being around rich people and preferred to tend to her gardens. She was so patient with him. Katerina, he remembered. Her name was Katerina. A queen. The boy was her only child. She often apologized to her son that she could not give him a little brother or sister. While he always told her that he did not blame her and that it was okay, he was a little lonely. The other boys and girls weren’t interested in being his friend, but instead were interested in their future. It wasn’t something he liked. And he was often left alone or ridiculed for his inept abilities. He overheard his mother telling his father, an extremely tall powerful man with a constant scowl, that while she was not keen on him being with another woman, she understood that she could not bare another and would like for him to sire a child so they may raise it. He did not understand what she meant by this. And he did not understand why his father looked so upset. Or was that guilt?

That expression went away when his father saw him and invited him to come closer. The boy smiled so easily as he ran to his parents.

~

There was once a child of eight autumns. He was gifted with a younger sister three years younger than him, a sweet girl with an impish smile and bright lilac hair. Already she would get into so much trouble, chasing the girls who try approaching her older brother and stomping away the boys who talk to her. Xander loved her with all of his heart. Her nurse maid has always been confused by this and asked him why one day. His reply was obvious, she is his sister. She reminded him that they are not related by mothers, and therefore she was less than him. He simply took a hold of his sister’s hand and lead her off to play. His mother had always been so happy when she saw them both, loving them both with a heart the size of the world. But lately she had been even happier, brighter, and bigger. He noticed that her tummy had grown and he was fairly certain she’d been touched as she would wrap her arms around it and sing in her soft voice. She claimed that he would soon have yet another baby brother or sister but he was skeptical. How did she know? And where would it come from? Besides, he had so many others, what would be so different with this?

The child would never learn why, for one day he heard the most awful scream. A deep voice bellowed in fear. Garbled manic shrieking. Rampant footfalls. Scent of iron. Red bloomed on the white dress his mother wore as she crumpled to the ground. He had been clinging to her but he can’t remember who took her away from him when she fell, for he was looking at his hand which was covered in something strange. In some ways, it smelled sweet. In all other ways it smelled wrong. He couldn’t think of why. But he looked up and both his mother and father were gone. There was a small trail of blood. Perhaps…? The child followed it. Tears fell freely, he cried out for his mother. He couldn’t understand what was happening. He just wanted his mother to hold him and tell him that everything was okay. Everything felt like such a bad dream. All he had to do to find his parents was listen to her screaming. Men clad in matte blue armor stood beside his father. Paladins. One caught him before he could run to his father. His screams were lost under his mother’s delirioud laughter and pained crying. He saw her hurl what looked like an ever flowing river of bile and blood. She was so healthy before…! Women in white scurry in and his father came out with him. The Paladin let him go then stepped back.

He asked his father what was going on. All he received in return were quiet tears and a tight hug.

"Where is Mother?" The child sobbed. "Why is she in pain? Why is she screaming? Father, I have to go and help her! She needs me! Let go, please!" But his father would not relinquish his hold on his son. Instead, he whispered apologies to him and rocked him in some attempt to sooth him. The child did not want to be held.

His little half-brothers and sisters found them as well. They quietly approached. He tried his hardest to smile for them all despite his own tears.

~

There was once a boy of ten autumns. His hair became curled sometime ago, but he hadn’t paid attention to when. Freckles dotted constellations on the tops of his cheeks and over his nose. He was not very tall for a boy his age, in fact he was outgrown by many of his little brothers. All of them were good at something. Even the one who wasn’t taller than him was good in all of his studies and already showed potential in combat. Something ugly would form in his heart whenever he saw his little brother. Why wasn’t he born like that? Why couldn't he be good at everything he touched? But regardless of how he felt, he was the oldest brother out of many, many children. It was his duty to be their shining example. He doubled his studies and practiced three times as much with swordplay. Blisters constantly formed on his palms, popping and scabbing over. Nurses often had to force him to rest. So he came with an idea.

There was a sword. A legendary sword of grand proportions that passed down in his family. Hardly any man could be able to wield the zweihandr, but that did not deter the boy. He wanted to make his family proud, so what better way than to show them all the might he knew he had hidden away inside? Approaching his father had been difficult, moreso in the recent years. Ever since his mother died, the people had no queen. His father drowned his sorrows in wine and women in order to sire all of the children he and his wife wanted to have. What’s more, was that the king was a fierce man with a deep timber and an arbiter’s gaze. He expected a lot from his eldest son but was constantly disappointed. But not on that day. No, the boy was determined to make his father proud of him. After he gathered his courage and declared proud and tall that he would pick up the Blade of Conquerors, the other nobles laughed. His father frowned. But he allowed this. Within the week, he said before dismissing him with a bored flick of his hand.

With his new pride giving him the energy he needed to train, the boy eagerly waited for the week to end. There he stood at the end of his father’s throne room, siblings standing at one side and snickering nobles on the other. The boy stood with his head held high and hands behind his back. His father permitted his approach. Nobles jeered at him. Siblings quietly cheered, their many mothers shushing them. Before him was the chest. It was black, as dark as the void, but engraved within it was gold outlining the most ferocious beast. The Dusk Dragon. Within this chest, resting comfortably on violet velvet, was the intimidating black blade. It was much larger than he expected. The amethyst eye carved sweetly into the cross guard glared menacingly at him. Even the sword itself mocked him. His father remained impassive. So he reached forward. When his hand touched the hilt of the sword, he swore he saw the amethyst glint strangely at him. It was enough to make him hesitate.

Black fire burst from the ebony chest. It engulfed him completely. Heat ripped through him, the flesh of his hands burning. He screamed in agony. Nothing he ever felt could compare to the pain of the hellfire, nothing. Maids rushed forward to help their poor prince, but a cruel voice echoed out for them to stop. Only close the chest. Leave him be. They obeyed as the boy laid on the ground curled in a ball of pain while the black flames finally died down, hands completely shined over in burns and already forming blisters. His siblings tried to go to their big brother, but everyone was ushered away. Many were laughing. The king simply stood and left. The boy was completely alone.

One of his baby sisters came in after everyone left and the chest carrying the sword was gone. She knelt down beside him to heal his wounds. The boy found it hard to look her in the face.

~

There was once a boy of fourteen autumns. Gone are the freckles from his tiny youth and his timid demeanor. Hair more pure in color, eyes quiet and dark like his late mother. The boy was still growing, but he had yet to show any desirable features. Just like any other boy his age, his face was a constant battleground of cleansing powder and rags against zits and dirty pores. He was still thin and lanky, a body not meant for the physical labor he tortured himself with. His studies were still a struggle, but he was getting better. Combat was slowly coming to him. While he did not always get the stance right or his reaction swift enough, he was beginning to form power.

But it wasn’t enough to protect those around him… His little brothers and sisters were killing each other as tools for their mothers in a bloody needless war. He did everything he could to protect the children for none of them wanted this. He was denied this time and time again. The concubines of his father were battling for the still empty throne of the queen. All of them attacked each other, poisoned their food, assassinated their children using children, drowned everyone. Those who committed the worst crimes were executed. Those who weren’t up to standards were culled off. And he had to watch it all from the side. By the time his father had married a new queen, a singer he met in Nestra, there were only three children left. The oldest of his little sisters, his talented little brother, and a newborn baby one of them had saved from an assassination plot. None of their mothers were alive.

Not that it mattered much to their father, it seemed. He was acting strange then, his skin grew paler and his voice more hollow, more tired. The boy obeyed his father, hoping to one day make him proud again. But he never noticed any of their efforts. Sometimes he’d carry his younger son on his shoulders, or tend to his youngest daughter, but there were never any words of affection. He would get the worst of it. He would be yelled at. Berated, told he was worthless. Sometimes whipped for his mistakes, however minor they were. But those were the least of his worries.

Another country was attacking for some reason. He was ordered to counterattack. The boy did not want to go to war yet he did as he was bid. His two friends...the only friends he ever made, were his retainers. He did not have them for very long, perhaps only a year or two, but they were all close. They did everything together. Adalwulf and Eleonore... Those were their names. And he could not protect even them. For the battle he led against the opposing kingdom went wrong. It failed miserably. He was outwitted and they were all outmatched. So many died that day. He was supposed to as well, but his friends protected him to the bitter end as he was forced to run away. The boy went home alone and with only a quarter of the forces he rode to battle with. He was not allowed to retrieve his retainers and give them the burial they so dearly deserved.

Upon returning home, he was greeted with a horrible sight. Snow white hair and lifeless dull blood red eyes staring at absolutely nothing. A child at least six years younger than he. His father’s large, greying paw on the boy. His new little brother, he was told. Another expectation. But where did he come from? He was tired from all the death he witnessed, but he felt his heart hurt when his father walked away and left the shell-shocked child to him. But the moment he touched him, he heard that scream. A scream that sounded just like his dying mother’s.

Later that night his sister told a joke. It was the last time he genuinely laughed with his family.

~

There was once a boy of sixteen autumns. He had yet to give up on trying to gain his father’s approval. But he know it would not come within a day. So, he set his mind to training as a Paladin. His bed was beginning find its fill of whores and courtesans to ease his lonely heart and growing desires. The boy was somewhat good at his studies but was untouchable in swordplay. Every day he began looking more and more like his father and less like his mother. Katerina would soon be but a memory to only a handful of people. Men and women his age and slightly older tried to woo him, for the most part with large success. But he never let himself love. Now that he was taking an active role in the war that erupted at the kidnapping of princes and princesses, he couldn’t allow himself to grow close to anyone. While he was by no means intimidating, there was an air of somber broodiness that left a bitter taste in people’s mouths. But there was one who always looked happy to see him.

By now, the boy had learned the new language and grew accustomed to the clothing. The food, often heavy with spice and protein, was still hard on his stomach, but he never complained. Whenever he found himself in the Northern Fortress to teach this child and train him, he...would smile and run to him with open arms with a call of his name. His red eyes would shine brighter than the moon that still hung in the sky. The older boy found himself unwillingly loving this small child who looked to him for protection and comfort. In return, unbeknownst to the smaller one, he gave him courage and the will to continue on.

One night, the boy prayed to the gods for the strength to fight a war that he did not want to fight and the will to protect those who needed him most. He prayed for the wisdom to guide his siblings. Then he went to the royal armory as he always had every night for the past six years to see if he could wield the sword. This night, the sword did not reject him. It let him unsheathe his terrifying black blade, hellish fire licking up to the sky. In the back of his mind, he could feel it mocking him and calling for blood. But he would not feed it the blood of his enemies. Not this night. Instead, he packed his things, arranged for his little sisters and brother to stay with their adopted sibling, and left to complete his training in the Sixfold Sanctuary alone. He had the Paladins escort him to the Port of Dia, he ignored the warnings of an old man about how dangerous it was to go, and set sail to the holy sight. The boy scaled its cliffs and climbed its stairs. He fought the illusions and meditated to find himself. For six months he stayed on that island, training with his new sword. Many times he nearly died. But he pushed on. When he reached the top of the tower, he was returned to Dia, where an old man claiming to be one of the Ancient Dragons gave him his blessing and sent him away. But he instead traveled straight to the nearest monastery to begin his paladin training. Another six months passed. He learned that Queen Arete had passed away in his absence.

He learned that his father was using his younger brother as a means of torturing prisoners and executing criminals in his absence. So he did the only thing he could do; lock away his heart and offer himself instead to perhaps preserve the innocence of his family.

The young boy locked away in the fortress played with him and the youngest sister in the snow. It was the last time he could bring himself to smile.

~

There is a man of twenty-eight autumns. He stands among the tallest of his race, the most powerful warrior in the entirety of his kingdom, clad in armor as dark as Nohrian nights. Siegfried rests dutifully in its scabbard, a heavy sword that needs to be held with two hands and yet is held with only one by this man. All life and love is drained from him. The scars of war are apparent on his face as he looks down at the battlefield. The battle cries of men, the burning of flesh, and the clashing of swords are all the music he knows these days. He does not smile. He does not laugh. He does not speak very easily. The only time he looks alive is when he is on the battlefield. Warmonger, he is called. Monster. Hero. Hellion. Prince. A weapon of war.

These names do not bother him. He knows he is all of these. He is what his father made him, after all. He watches over his family, but they do not know him. Camilla tries to talk to him about the stress of war, and he appreciates her as both his friend and sister, he does not let her in. Elise is constantly trying to play with him. He and Leo have a very antagonistic relationship because of his failure to him as his older brother from years and years ago. None of them should ever know the horrors he sees in war. Leo, Camilla, and Elise are always sent off on minor missions for Xander allows King Garon to use him as his rally and siege weapon.

Anything to keep his family safe…

A flash of something soft and gently crosses his tired glare as he thinks of one sibling in particular. No...he has long given up on trying to think of his as a brother. He loves him with everything he has left to give. He would not lay down his life for him, for if he were to die then who would be there to comfort him when he cries? Who would be there to protect him? Who would be there to teach him all there is to teach him? A flash of silver catches his eye and he glances over to a boy five years younger than him. Silas, his squire. His heart twists. Silas would be a good lover to the man locked away in the fortress far to the North. Perhaps he could arrange for him to sneak in and see him every so often, exchange their letters to each other. Watch as they smile with glee and happiness. The man sighs quietly to himself as he mounts his warhorse, an ornery mare he has had for the past thirteen years. They’re ambushed by Hoshidan soldiers due to his carelessness. His new retainers, Peri and Laslow, gather around their lord as Silas charges into battle.

The memory of Corrin calling out his name in genuine sadness and worry when he watched him ride away for the very first time rises. Xander rides into battle and fights harder for his life than any other time.


	2. My Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooooa, this is WAY overdue omg I am so sorry. It's been hella crazy over here but I have no excuse for how late this update is. Now that I have more time on my hands, I should be able to actually set a schedule that isn't once a month. I am so sorry to all of those who have been patiently waiting for this chapter. Time to dig into the meat of the story.

Blood soaks into his vision as one by one, he collects more bodies and bones for his throne. The obsidian blade cuts clean through his enemies. Fires black with hate and bloodlust sear each and every samurai or archer that dare oppose him. Silas has long ridden off, using his skills in both sword and lance to defend his kingdom. Hoshidans bark their strange language at the stoic prince who cleaves through their brethren. His understanding of their tongue is limited, but he knows enough of what they say to him. Things he knows he is all too well. The ambush leaves Laslow a bit on the bloody side, unfortunately, and he is sent off to find a healer. Peri eagerly rushes off after Silas, in the hopes to bring happiness to her liege and for the joys of killing.

Hrímfaxi, the black Nohrian born warhorse of a frilled mane and feathery hooves, barely lets out a heavy breath. She paws at the ground anxiously, blowing out her nose. War flows through her veins as heavily as it does for her master. Only unlike him, she is not one to hesitate when it comes to taking a life. But she was trained, broken in even, but her master. Only he can touch her without fear. They are one on the battlefield, moving as one body and mind. And as such, she does not move from her spot. Not until he gently eases her forward and she walks. Their people flood down to the valley below, swerving around them. A break in the stream. Xander sheathes his blade as he stops his mount atop a small but steep hill overlooking the battle. Brown eyes gaze indifferently over the blood being spilt onto the grass. A blur of red and white zips across his vision, cutting down his warriors with precise ease.

Green...it used to be such a lovely color. How fitting that even this peaceful patch of land should be stained by the scars of war.

"Nohrian general!" 

Xander slowly blinks down. A Hoshidan wearing an unusual garb stands before the bulk of his army. Long red-brown hair cascades down his back, each and every lock flicked out like the quilled scales of a noble dragon. A strange red mask frames his face. He's not entirely certain what it's supposed to represent, if it is one of demonic horns or the maw of a ferocious beast, but he will admit that it cuts quite the imposing image on what he would think is a handsome man. He can't help that he still does not give the faintest flicker of emotion.

"You face the High Prince of Hoshido! Byakuya Ryoma! I challenge you to one on one combat!"

His hand twitches when the other calls out his title and name. Something hideous stirs in his heart. Hrímfaxi senses this and tosses her head once before lowering it with her ears flicked back. Once more she paws at the ground in excitement. Ryoma, Ryoma... He knows that name... Yes, that was the name Corrin used to cry out when he was much younger. Nightmares plagued him every night. While he tried to comfort him, Corrin would run away from him and cry. At the time, the boy still only knew Hoshidan so Xander could only guess what it was he wanted. But there were names he sputtered. The most common being Ryoma. While Xander is as understanding as he can be, it all comes rushing to him now as he stares down his enemy. This is that same Ryoma. Yes, this must be him. Embers spark in his belly and that is all it takes. This man, this prince, must be destroyed. Even if it wasn’t the same Ryoma Corrin once knew as someone of comfort, he shares the same name. It’s irrational, this he knows… But no one will take Corrin away from him. Not like this. He refuses to let him fall to enemy hands. He refuses to give up a precious light. A taloned gauntlet slowly unfurls from around the leather reins of his horse and reaches to draw the zweihandr from his hip. Embers grow into a fire that threatens to consume him. Adrenaline pulses in his veins. The amethyst eye on Siegfried glistens and the fires of his hate swirl about the blade. He tilts his chin up to glare down at his target. "I accept your challenge, High Prince. But I am no general," he calls out in a deceptively calm voice. Flames burst around him and his steed. All around him, the Nohrian soldiers cheer at the rally.

_“Xander! Come see! I made you tea! I-I know it’s bitter and...probably not all that good, but you’re always so tired when you come here… Won’t you relax? I’ll take care of you, just like how you take care of me.”_

"I am the Crown Prince Xander Ebner of Nohr!" He roars. With a snap of his reins, Hrímfaxi whinnies her battlecry and leaps from the hill they stood on. Many of his soldiers quickly flee from their leader’s warpath. Everyone can feel the animosity the Crown Prince refuses to show. Ryoma rushes to meet him. Siegfried sings with the hatred, rage, and desperation that rests inside Xander’s heart. It screams of everything he wants to let out. But it all falls on deaf ears. As it always does.

_“Is everything alright? You don’t seem very focused today. Has something happened since we’ve last met? You can tell me anything, you know.”_

_“I promise, I’m not lonely. I have Flora, Felicia, Jakob, and Gunter here to keep me company. Besides, I understand why you can’t come see me. It’s okay… You’re here now though, and that’s what matters.”_

Black fire and white lightning engulf them both. Ryoma fights for his life. Xander listens to the song his blade sings. It is so alike to the words lingering on the katanas of his kinsmen. Passion, he hears. Patrotism, he sees. This white and gold blade then screams something that strikes at his heart. Fear. It cries of fear. A fear of what? The courts are loose with their tongues. He has collected that the High Prince of Hoshido, his name unknown to him before now, was perfect in every way. Perfect speech, perfect leadership, perfect swordplay, tactics. No foe has defeated him yet. So what could a human so perfect be afraid of? Xander’s eyes narrow as blow after blow, he listens to this jarring note in what should be a perfect song. In his struggle to understand, however, Ryoma manages to strike him with a jolt of lightning. Against both arms.

Searing pain clouds his vision as he has his horse fall back. He can barely hold onto his sword. He’s almost certain the skin on his biceps just melted into his armor. Corrin appears behind his eyelids again, this time standing beside Leo. A rush of exhaustion sweeps over him, then the flutter of a need to keep going. He clings to it.

Brown eyes peer over the pain inflicted on him, and he shows an expression of anger. It seems jarring to Ryoma but he does not back down.  
  
The fool…

With a mighty roar and sudden maelstrom of hell fire surrounding him, he clashes once more with the opposing prince. He slices open his armor, the cut on his skin beneath it shallow. But that’s all his sword needs. Bronze skin goes stark white and Ryoma stumbles back. Pain is all he knows now. Xander sympathizes with him. The pain of the white lightning is nothing compared to the pain of the black flames. He can already see the injury glazing over with a shine from the burn. Xander strikes at him again. He cuts deep into his side. Ryoma grunts out and stabs Xander underneath his plate. Blood runs down them both as they remain locked. Hrímfaxi pants in worry. She knows.

They both know.

One of them could end this, right now. Walking away would admit defeat. Staying like this could kill them both. Calling upon their swords is a bad call as well. For if one does it, so will the other. And so they remain, while their men fight to the death upon the ground of a village Nohr burned to the ground. It is quiet between them until at last Ryoma speaks up.  
  
“Why… do you let this happen?” Xander finds himself at last staring into olive green eyes glazed with pain, anger, and confusion.

“What do you mean?” His voice is eerily still, despite there being a sword in his gut. He can barely feel it right now.

“Why did you kill King Sumeragi? Why did you kill these innocent people? Why are you leading your people in an invasion against a country who had done you no wrong?!”

“Do not ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”  
  
“You will not patronize me! Tell me so I may lay to rest the lives you so cruelly stole from this world!”

 _Feeding an angry soul words of comfort will never put it to rest_ , Xander thinks to himself. It nearly falls from his tongue but his lips remain silent. Instead, he draws forth an impassive expression, eyelids lowering to feign boredom. “Very well… Because we can.”

His answer enrages the prince, who twists his sword before pulling it out to strike at him again. Xander can feel a cold sweat form on his brow as he winces. Hrímfaxi has the sense to lash out and bury her teeth into Ryoma’s arm for a brief moment to distract him as she dashes her master away from the danger. He can barely hold onto Siegfried right now and he’s not really sure why. He knows that his skin must be grey from blood loss. Ryoma does not look much better. Peri and Silas find their way to his side, just as a red haired man and a scantly clad woman appear seemingly out of nowhere beside the prince. The four opposing forces seem close to lunging out and attacking each other. But their lords back away. Their eyes lock, rage meets exhaustion. This was is far from over between them. This battle is won. The Hoshidans are frightened away and they retreat back to the safety of their home.

The Nohrians have won yet another bit of land from their neighbor.

Darkness overtakes him as he feels his body lose balance and fall from his horse.

~

_A person stands there before him. Wreathed in white cotton with a cowl drawn over their head to obscure their face, the only thing visible are strands of blue hair and a thin frown. There are no words exchanged between him and this strange person although he can feel an unbearable sadness and desperation from them. So he walks forward to get a better look. Well, he tries to, anyways._

_"How long are you going to hide yourself from him?"_

_He stops and watches the stranger. The words are quiet, scared, lonely. Careful. Like they're hiding a terrible secret but holding out the answer to it right in front of his very eyes. And he tries to approach them again. But no matter how far he walks, the stranger remains at a far enough distance that he can't make out any details. The stranger frowns a little more, a pout that is eerily familiar but he can't think as to why he think he's seen it before. "Tell me your name,"  he calls out. But all he gets in return is a subtle little shake of a head. The pout deepens. It's...oddly cute, given the circumstance. He swears he can see the puff of a cheek under those cerulean locks. Annoyance, perhaps? The sadness seems to lighten just the tiniest bit before falling back over them in a thick blanket. The stranger lets another minute or two pass before they let out a heavy sigh and tug the cowl a little more over their face. "Just tell him."_

_“Just tell him what?”_

_“You’re not that dense. You know what I mean… Do this, son of Nohr. If you don’t, well…”_

_Xander waits for the stranger to finish what he’s saying, but he doesn’t. A frown settles on his own face. So he tries to approach. He feels as though he is walking on a moving floor and this weird entity is on a still platform. No matter how much effort he puts forth, he never gets closer. Frustration creeps into his joints. It sears into his stomach. His arms feel like lead and his skin hurts. It’s driving him insane. He wants to scream. In his agony, he tries to run toward the stranger. Hands reach out from the darkness and grab at him._

_Suddenly he’s falling. He flails, to no avail. He’s certain his fist must have struck something as he felt a solid resistance, but it doesn’t quite register. The stranger is suddenly in his face. All he can see is a gleaming red eye filled with the same madness of his father. “You must not stop fighting. Don’t keep losing yourself to me.” Their hand reaches out and touches his chest. He feels himself alight with fire. He tries to claw the hand away, but he’s restrained by the darkness. “Don’t let him be lost too.”_

Xander blinks waves upon mountains of pain crash into him. Everything hurts. His arms are bloody, skin missing from his shoulder to his elbow. The wound in his gut is bigger than previously thought. Healers and doctors crowd around him as Peri and Laslow do everything in their power to hold him down, although Peri seems to be sporting a swollen jaw. They’re grabbing his arms. He tries to fling them both off from the pain. The fire is creeping to his head. He can’t even get enough of a breath to shout out orders for them to let go of him. The doctors sneer at him in exaggerated annoyance. He never was popular with them in the first place. They try to tell him to calm down, that his fever is reaching dangerous levels. The pain doesn’t slow him down. Sleep suddenly takes him as he stills at last.

“What a pain, as usual…” One of the dead children staring at him grumbles. How strange... he thought there was an adult there. A man of black garb.

“At least he’s not asking for medicine to ‘silence the war’ like he sometimes does,” a charred woman points out. Wasn't she, too, a nurse?

“He only does that for attention. We all know this. There’s no such thing as terror from war,” a twisted man huffs. “Now his men are complaining about the same thing.”

“Let’s just get him healed and…”

The rest of the words fade from his memory as the sleep spell settles deep into his mind. The last thing he remembers is the vision of a child in a bloodied white kimono begging him to be let go.


	3. Who Taught You How to Hate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just... gonna try to post when I can. Sorry all.

_He trembles at his touch, a simple kiss leaves goosebumps on his skin. Pure as the snow he lived in. He’s soft beneath his fingers, the taste is wild but the scent leaves him crazed. It reminds him of rain, of fresh cut flowers, of spring. He, who was once stained by war, is free of that hateful cycle. Cries ring out loudly in his ears. He_ **_aches_ ** _for release, but not yet. Not until his lover has had his satisfaction. Nimble fingers clutch at his hair and his back, nails digging in scars that should bring pain but instead bring a pleasant hum. It’s all too much. A whisper of names answer whimpers and pleas. Tight warmth surrounds him, his heart soars in his embrace. Arms cling to each other in this primal moment. Perverse motions seem right for once, and he finds that he enjoys this maddened dance. Sparks fly from his gut into his spine when he feels his time. He’s uncertain who is who anymore, or where he begins and where he ends…_

“Who is Corrin?”

It is entirely dark in his room. No candles are lit, not even the ones he uses to light his desk for work. But he can see every detail in his room. They hold his dangerous secrets and his vulnerable memories. The woman who shared this night with him sits up, her hips bruised from his grip, lips plump and red, glossy black hair a disheveled mess. Her skin is pale like the moon. Xander sits on the edge of the bed, back turned to her. His arms hurt so much. The skin is still shiny and tender to the touch, even the wind brushing over it hurts. The cold sets his nerves on fire. His wound from three days before still has not fully recovered, and in fact he can feel blood seeping into the bandages. But he does not pay it mind. The question weighs heavily on him, and his muscles tense under its weight. He wants to scream out.

“Are they a past lover, perhaps…?” She slithers forth to settle against his back, her sweet voice a purr in his ear. Hands come around to settle on his hips. Xander’s eyes narrow a bit more and he clenches his jaw to keep from howling out. Pain, declaration. He’s not certain which one would burst forth from his lips. But how he wishes this was Corrin touching him in such a familiar way. He can imagine it when he closes his eyes. He can imagine the warmth that is this woman as him instead. Perhaps he might even rest his head on him. Silky hair gives way for feathery silver locks. A gentle sigh and a warm breath across his skin. Oh, but how his heart aches for this reality. It begs him to go to the Northern Fortress and be selfish, tell him of his wants. Xander reminds it that he yearns for something he cannot and should not have. The other deserves someone who is not stained with war and decades of blood.

“I could be this ‘Corrin’ for you if you want them so badly… You couldn’t stop saying their name. They must be something if you were so vocal…”

Her hand tries to slither down from his hip to touch him as she continues to purrs. Xander freezes. Fingers immediately grab her by the wrist. His grip might be that of iron, for he hears her breathe in sharply and she leans. But he does not relent. He looks over his shoulder at her, and he sees the concern in her eyes. Concern for her wellbeing. She realized that she crossed the line. Good. “I think you should leave,” Xander says calmly. But it is a cold anger. One that he is well known for. He does not know where this anger comes from, all he knows is that it chills even the blood in his own body for a brief moment before a white heat. She nods quickly and yanks her hand away from him. He watches her limp a bit as she gathers her clothes hurriedly, pulling them on. She is a simple whore. Xander doesn’t even know her name. It’s a shame, really. But as there is no window in his room she scrambles to find the door. The only light, really, is from the cracks of his door. He stands as it opens and closes quickly. There are no footsteps leading away for many, many moments.

So the Prince of Nohr simply goes to his closet with ease. With the woman gone, he can see things form in the corner of his eyes. Faces he never forgot. The faces of his long dead siblings. They crowd around him to suffocate the air he breathes, a weight as familiar as the pull of the earth. At this point it is a strange comfort to him. The door opens during his musing, but these footsteps are familiar. “See to it that she is taken care of, Peri,” Xander hums as he calmly pulls on his thick wool robe of velvet purple and shimmering gold. He could practically hear the uncontainable excitement radiating from her. “Did the pretty lady upset Xander?” Her gravelly voice hissed with a grin.

“Unfortunately.” His retainer giggles before she bows abruptly and skips out of the room. Another walks in. Laslow. This one he can sense his worry. “What is it, Laslow?”

“My lord, you’ve exerted yourself. You must be careful, it won’t heal properly,” the other man fusses as he comes over to help him tie the binding around his waist. Xander simply clicks his teeth in response. “What did she say…?”

“It was rather something she heard me say. I would prefer not to repeat it.”

Laslow is quiet at this. They both think the same thing, and they both know it. Xander needs to silence his desires for Corrin, or chase after these desires. Both are impossible for the Paladin Prince. This was not the first time he had to put down a whore for his slip up. And it wouldn’t be the last, either. Perhaps this is what troubles them most. Peri does not mind, she has simple needs and desires. To protect her lord, no matter the costs. To remain entertained even if it meant the life of another. Her bloodlust unsettled Xander, but her devotion to him was calming. Often, he viewed her as a daughter. Laslow, on the other hand, was more cautious, more wise. More infuriating. Though he would much rather spend his time flirting with the ladies than actually do his duties as a royal retainer, but he is wiser and more insightful than he lets on. Xander glances away as he straightens his collar. His siblings are gone. A long moment passes before he glances at Laslow then moves on. “Shall I bring a maid to tend to your wounds?”

“There is no need.”

“A doctor at least, yes?”

“Laslow. At ease. I’m fine. It looks worse than it feels.”

His retainer hurries behind him as he walks out of his room. He does not say much more on the subject, however. Laslow knows better than to try and undermine his liege. The man can come up with crafty ways to punish him for disobedience. So, he leaves him to his thoughts.

Xander stops in front of a window and casts his gaze out. Windmire is nestled comfortably below them. Castle Krakenburg lords its presence over the town that used to be a once bustling and vibrant city of gold and people. Now, there are barely any flickers of light to even show that the city breathes. A maid sees him and ducks away. He sees her reflection in the glass, then his own. Eyes slowly trail up and focus on himself. He can barely recognize himself. This isn’t the face of a man who could go another day living in his own hell. He sees a tiny paw on his robe, but he does not flinch. A pair of eyes peer up at him. Young Adal, from before he was slain. One of his little brothers, perhaps one he was closest to. He could almost feel the weight of his head as he lays it against his thigh. The maid appears again and hands him a glass of wine. Xander takes it with a quiet thank you but he does not look away from the image. _‘I know,’_ he thinks to himself as he sips on the wine. _‘It won’t go away, will it?’_

The boy looks up again. He can see the pure white skin forming into a babe’s pink blush at his fingers and toes. Looking at him again, his face is exactly as when he found him. Expression shocked, eyes bulging and wide, once gentle purple now turned as brown as his hair. Drowned by a butler under service of the boy’s mother. Xander doesn’t dare look away from him. Wasn’t this his burden? If he had only arrived sooner…

But what ifs do not save a child’s soul. Xander finally closes his eyes and takes another sip. Adal disappears from his sight. “How have the reforms been coming along?”

It takes Laslow a moment before he answers. “They haven’t been doing all that well, my lord. Between the Faceless prowling the streets, the bandits scavenging the city, and the citizens refusing to cooperate… It’s not a good situation. They’re likely to revolt but afraid to.”

“What of the restoration?”

“That, at least, has had some headway. The Paladins have kept a steady pace and have so far managed to rebuild 10 establishments so far.”

Xander’s eyes slowly open as he looks down at the city. His city. He hates being of a higher station than his people, even if it is necessary. “Good… it is not enough, but it something.” He downs the rest of his wine and sets the glass aside. A finger trails over the rim in thought. An urge creeps its way back over him, filling his mind with images of his previously explored fantasy. Eyes close with a deep breath as he fights with his body’s constant hunger. He always wins when he wants to win. He was not considered a Paladin for nothing. Laslow suspects nothing. “Have them ready to start again in the morning. Even if the people will not trust us, we still must make life better for them.” His retainer bows and scurries off to deliver his message. The prince looks back out the window of his castle down to his people below.

_“X-Xander…!”_

He closes his eyes and rests his hands on the window sill. His hunger is apparently a force to be reckoned with that night. Hands clench tightly on the edge of stone as the pain in his side registers and the whore’s touch resurfaces to memory.

_Brilliant red eyes look up at him with their wonder and that brightness he knows only surfaces when he is there. The only kind of red that he can stomach to even look at. Hands clench into the sheets and his back arches as Xander's movements are slow and methodical. Corrin gasps, loudly, which in turn is let out into even louder moans. Xander leans over him, a hand keeping one of his athletic legs over his shoulder while he places a hand next to his head. It’s slow, his pace. Only until Corrin digs his heel into his shoulder to spur him on does he begin to move faster._

A growl escapes him as he shoves away from the window sill and storms back to his room. This was not what he wanted to do right now. He just wanted to have a pleasant walk. And yet… And yet. This is what he spends his days and nights thinking of when he is not out to war. Just as he goes in, however, someone knocks on the door to get his attention. So he yanks open the door to look down. Any arousal he had was very much killed, replaced with disdain. “What do you want, Iago?”

A smile slithers across venomous violet lips. Greasy black hair, crowned by a corona of gold and thorns, sways as he gives an all too deep bow. “My lord Xander! How ar-”

“My patience is declining to non-existent this night, Iago, spare the pleasantries and tell me why you’re bothering me at this time of night,” Xander growls to cut off the viper. His father’s advisor and, unfortunately, the highest ranking general of the Nohrian Army, Iago has never been...a favored person among the Nohrian Children. His sadistic nature and foul plots to poison their father’s mind has garnered nothing but distrust and dislike from the royal family. Though he is a favorite among the courts of Nohr, while Xander is not. Yet another reason for the stalwart prince to find fantasies of Iago’s head severed from his body appealing. Iago gives a loud, _obnoxious_ hum as he swings back up and clasps his hands behind his back. That sleazy smile had yet to leave his face. “Your father wishes to speak to you, of course! And he would wish it as soon as you possibly could.”

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

“I hope you will not take your time, Prince Xander. You know how finicky your father can be…”

Xander takes in a deep breath as he stares down at Iago. How his hands itch to wrap around that pathetically thin throat and strangle the life from his body. A man like this does not deserve the privilege of living in the same place as his baby sisters and brother. This same man, he knows, he saw, is the creator of and controller of many Faceless, men-made-monsters who indiscriminately attack any and all living creature who stand in their way...many times even their master. Yet Iago is never in any danger of this. It would not surprise Xander in the least if this hateful man actually created the concept of the Faceless. The very thought of it makes his blood boil with resentment. So, he simply does not answer him and instead closes the door in his face to go get dressed. He can hear the offended huff from Iago as he walks away. Good. Xander pulls on his attire, his leather underarmor, his violet shirt, his cuffs, his actual armor, then Siegfried. The moment his hand touches the hellblade he can feel it sneer at him. It wanted that whore’s blood to wash over it.

He sighs.

Soon he is ready, and he heads out. Silas waits for him, concern on his expression. “Are you alright, my lord?”

“What do you mean?” Xander asks as he has him follow to the throne room.

“Your wound. I mean… you took a really nasty hit from… ah, that Hoshidan general.”

“His name was Prince Ryoma, Silas. You’d best remember that.”

“How come?”

“It is a knight’s duty to be wise of his enemy, but to be respectful of all. Even to those he fights. A Paladin respects all life as if it were his own, and prays over the ones he must kill for his king and country.”

“R-Right… But still! Are you certain you should be moving around like this? It’s only been three days.”

“I am fine. You worry far too much about me, Silas,” Xander sighs fondly as he looks over at him. Silas frowns, his blue-grey hair shimmering in the torchlight. His cowlick concerns Xander. Does he ever brush his hair?  
“Someone has to worry about you if you won’t.”

To that, the prince says nothing but simply continues on. Thankfully the squire catches on to that little fact and asks him about other things. More details about the Paladin Order of the Dusk Dragon. Xander gives him quick little summaries, as there is not really enough time to further school him on the etiquette of knights and the Code of Chivalry. By the time they arrive to the throne room and are announced to King Garon, Xander had reminded him of the basics as well as quizzed him on the essentials of what it means to be a Paladin. It was unsatisfying to the man, Xander knows, but it will leave him with a hunger for more, better answers. The two of them stand there, Silas at attention and Xander stands with the respect a prince and son should have for his father.

Beady black eyes roll in their sockets to stare down at Xander. He sits in an obsidian throne with a massive dark dragon hanging over their heads. His skin as grey as ever, though Xander could swear he sees it flaking. He considers them both for a long moment, a clawed, black gauntlet coming up to touch his white and black beard, silver tangled secretly in it to show his age. “Why have you brought this fresh meat with you, Xander?” Garon grumbles. Silas shifts his weight uncomfortably as Xander simply stands as he is. “He is my squire, Father.”

“Leave us.”

Silas bows his head after a moment of hesitation and he backs away, out of the throne room. Xander does not look back or acknowledge that he was dismissed. “What is it you wish of me, Father?” He asks once he hears the doors close.

“I have been thinking… How is Corrin these days?”

“He has been excellent, Father. He eats well, reads his books, studies well, and he trains daily. His reflexes have increased. He has become quite an accomplished warrior, I feel,” Xander lists without worry.

“Would you trust him on the battlefield?”

“...Father?”

“I would wish for Corrin to come see me, I have a task for him to do.”

“I am not certain I understand, Father. You wish Corrin to come live here at last?”

“You do not need to understand, _boy_ ,” Garon spits angrily. Xander looks on in confusion. “Corrin must prove himself of our family, does he not?! I took him in, he must show that my efforts are not in vain. I would have him show that he is as useful to me as you have become.”

This is when something stirs.

“He will join the war effort against Hoshido. If he’s even slightly as capable as you claim he is, then surely he can accomplish something as simple as that.”

_No._

Sweet innocent Corrin… join the war? Pure, quiet, mindful Corrin stain his hands with blood and torment?

_Do not let this be so._

“Now go. Set out tomorrow.”

_Protect._

“Shall I… prepare a room for him, then?”

“I said to bring him here, not move him here. This castle has no room for someone like him.”

His heart sinks down into his stomach. It burns, he realizes. It burns with an intensity that bothers, frightens, and exhausts him. Every part of his body screams in anguish. Yet he keeps his expression calm and collected, stoic as the obsidian his father rests on. “Of course… I’ll head out first thing in the morning.”

“And try not to embarrass yourself by fainting after a little lightning this time,” Garon scoffs before sitting back and waving his hand to dismiss him. Xander bows, thanking his father for his time, then leaves. Silas smiles when he comes out of the throne room but that smile quickly falls into something else. Something unreadable. Xander hurries away to be alone with his thoughts. Silas does not follow him.

_Keep him safe._

The Corrin he knew and cherished was soon to perish and make way for a Corrin who would suffer as he suffered. He wanted to throw up. Every fiber of his being, his darkened soul, rejected the idea vehemently. He couldn’t breathe. All he could see was white. A bestial growl bubbled in his throat, a deep and sinister voice that even he could not recognize as his own. Fire burns through his veins. This is not a feeling he knew he could have. This is not a feeling he ever thought he could have towards his own father. He eventually leans against a wall, a hand tensing so hard into it that he left claw marks. His draconic blood pooled around the heart that was still left in his stomach. Together, they created a fire. A fire so all consuming, it reminded him of Siegfried’s flames. His other hand clenched his chest.

_I hate all those who would destroy his innocence._

…

_And yet, for his sake, I cannot disobey Father… Forgive me, Corrin._

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I'm writing, and will hopefully finish. Xander just doesn't get enough love and there is not enough gay corriander floating around. So I decided to put in my own work. I hope you enjoy~


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